Wednesday, July 13, 2011


 Last night, I was asked to define the word “Adult”.

This, in and of itself, is the fucking problem.

Really?  You don’t know what I mean when I say, “I want to live with adults”?  This is confusing?

Well, ok then.  Let me refer to Webster’s Dictionary:


 [uh-duhlt, ad-uhlt]


1.  having attained full size and strength; grown up; mature: an adult person, animal, or plant.

2. of, pertaining to, or befitting adults.

3. intended for adults; not suitable for children: adult entertainment.

Oh, I see.  You thought I was referring to the 3rd definition above?  That perhaps instead of living with people that have a maturity level of less than that of my 8 year old, I meant I wanted to live with porn stars?  Ok, maybe I should have clarified.  I don’t want to live in a frat house, where the possibility of grown humans walking around naked could exist.  I don’t want to feel like I’m the mother of people older than myself. 

Mostly, I just don’t want to live with these people anymore.

My house is more like a carnival than a house. 

The House’s Table of Contents:

Chapter 1 – Things that live in the house, or at least on the property:

-(1) 8 (soon to be 9) year old girl child

-(1) Fiancé-Face

-(2) Male roommates in their mid to late 20’s

-(8) –yes, I said 8—dogs

-(4) Horses

-(1) Pony

-(1) Barn cat

Chapter 2 – Things that can be found there at any given time:

-(4) more horses that don’t belong to me

-(4) people that belong to these horses

-(1) 20 something male that parks on my couch so often I’m considering asking for rent

-Random additional children, some of which I’m not sure where they came from or if their parents know  

  where they are

In addition to the things I can find at my house that live and breathe, there are a total of six vehicles that still run, at the moment two that do not (which don’t belong to any of the house’s inhabitants), random people’s furniture, clothing, dishes, tools, and pets.

I’m not sure how it got to be like this.  We have to warn people when they come to the house for the first time, so they don’t either faint from shock, or call some sort of authority.

The house also rejects any form of attempting to organize or clean it.  None of us are slobs.  We try to clean up after ourselves.  There are just so many people and pets trying to cohabitate in one space, and of course we all have stuff, that it’s impossible to stay on top of it.  My key phrase for new people is “Please don’t mind the house, I haven’t had a chance to clean”.

Like hell I haven’t.  They should’ve seen it before I ran around the house like a whirlwind on crack trying to make it seem just messy instead of slovenly.  I carefully construct the image that the house was likely cleaned a few days ago, by leaving things in strategic locations to appear they were just placed there moments ago.  Instead the reality is that these things live in that spot. 

We have two gigantic dog crates in the foyer, to contain the wild beasts that would otherwise destroy EVERYTHING during the night.  The variety of the items that haven’t moved from the top of the dog crate in months is just astonishing.  Children’s books, my shoes, reusable grocery bags, a pillow, a can of chicken noodle soup, a hairbrush…….you get the idea.

Every once in a while I get it in my head that I can fix this.  I can go through the house, one pile of crap at a time, and organize it so it will be efficient.  It will be better than new.  So I begin my arduous task……4, or 5, or 6 hours later, covered in dust, coated in sweat, probably bleeding, and panting like dog under the porch of a trailer in alabama in July, I haven’t gotten past the living room and I quit, because I realize that I will never conquer the mess. 

The house is attached to its clutter, and it will do all in its power to defeat any would-be conquerors. 

Fine house, have it your way.  For now........

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Shouldn't You Be Working by Bethany Davenport is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.